So, what sort of game was he playing?
She shouldn't ask questions, she thought, as she pinched out the candles and walked slowly to the door in her turn. She should just be thankful. But gratitude didn't seem to feature too strongly in her inner turmoil.
She could hear music from the drawing room as she crossed the hall. Rachmaninov, she recognised, passionate and plangent. Not the cool jazz she'd expected. But let's face it, Adie, she told herself. You don't know what to expect any more. And she went upstairs to her room. Alone. That night she dreamed about the treehouse again. The same dream as always, where she knelt on rough boards, peering, terrified, over the edge, searching for a way down. But the ground, hundreds of feet below, was shrouded in clouds and mist, and she knew she was seeking a safety— a reassurance—that no longer existed. Knew, too, that it wasn't simply the isolation or distance from the ground that was scaring her...
She could hear herself crying, but barely recognised her own voice. There were other voices too, raised in anger, but she couldn't catch the words as a rising wind took the little house and shook it, sending it tumbling down into crumpled matchwood. And her with it.
Adrien awoke with a start, to find tears on her face. She sat up shakily and looked at her alarm clock, and saw it had just gone one a.m.
She drank some water from the carafe on her night table, then got out of bed, wandering across to the window seat.
Tucking her feet under her, she leaned her forehead against the cool pane and stared sightlessly into the darkness.
It was time, she thought, to lay some ghosts to rest. To force herself to remember exactly what had happened all those years ago and then wipe it from her mind. If she could.
Young as she'd been, she'd sensed instantly the hostility between Chay and Piers from the first day the glamorous newcomer had spent at the Grange, and had been distressed by it. Chay had been her friend, but Piers was exciting, almost alien, with his expensive clothes and easy charm.
'So this is the demon chess-player,' he greeted her at their first meeting. 'My uncle's told me all about you. I shall have to watch my step.'
And when they played, and she beat him, he praised her extravagantly, making her glow. Each time she went to the Grange after that he sought her out, behaving as if she was the one person he wanted to see.
She tried her best to bring the two boys together. She wanted them to like each other so that she wouldn't feel disloyal when Piers monopolised her company, as he undoubtedly did. But Chay stayed aloof.
And it wasn't Piers's fault. He was clearly interested in Chay, continually asking questions about him. And, eventually, Adrien succumbed to his pressure and showed him the treehouse.
She knew at once it was a mistake. She stood, awkward and upset, while Piers prowled round, examining everything with contemptuous eyes, rifling through the precious biscuit tin, tossing the neat pile of sketches on to the plank floor.
'Field glasses.' He snatched them up. 'Good ones too. Where did he pinch these from?'
'Mr. Stretton gave them to him.' Adrien looked apprehensively at the entrance. 'Let's go down again, please. Chay will be angry if he finds us here. It's his special place.'
'Chay has no right to any place at all.' There was a note in his voice that scared her. 'He's nothing—just the housekeeper's son.' He looked down at the field glasses.
'As for these...' His arm went back, and he hurled them into the nearby trees. She heard a crash and a tinkle as they landed.
She said with a little wail, 'You've broken them,' and began to scramble down. But when she reached the ground Chay was waiting, his face like stone and his eyes bitter with anger and condemnation as he looked at Adrien.
She tried to say something, but he cut her short. 'Go back to the house, Adie. Go now.'
Tears streaming down her face, she ran. Behind her, she could hear angry voices, then the violent sound of a scuffle. As she came out of the trees she saw her father standing with Angus Stretton by the gateway to the kitchen garden, clearly looking for her. She reached them breathlessly.
'Chay and Piers are fighting,' she gasped through her tears. 'Oh, make them stop—please.'
Mr. Stretton said grimly, 'I'll deal with it,' and broke into a run.
'We'd better go home,' her father said, trying to hustle her gently away, but she resisted.
'No, Daddy, please. I want to see Chay. I want to see he's not hurt.'
She watched them come down from the trees, with Angus Stretton bringing up the rear.
Piers, looking thunderous, had a split lip and a torn shirt, while Chay, staring in front of him, his face set, had the beginnings of a black eye.
Adrien twisted free of her father's restraining hand and ran up to him. 'Chay.' Her voice was urgent. 'Chay, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it to happen—any of it.'
He didn't look at her, and his voice was barely more than a whisper. 'Go away from me, Adie, and keep away. I'm warning you.'
But she had to see him, she thought as she lay in bed that night She had to talk to him properly and explain. Tell him how sorry she was that their secret place was spoiled.
The next morning she told her mother she was going to play with a school friend, who lived at the other end of the village, and set off on her bike, taking the back road to the Grange instead. She left her bike in a deserted corner of the rear yard and set off to the wood, expecting to find Chay already there, clearing up.
By the time she reached the tree the sky had darkened, and misty rain was falling. Usually he helped her to climb up, but this time there was no answer when she called, so she had to struggle up as best she could, her feet slipping on the damp rungs.
Chay had already been there, she saw with disappointment, because all his things had gone. The little structure looked deserted and forlorn. All that remained was one sketch, torn in half and lying facedown on the floor.
When Adrien picked it up she realised it was a drawing of herself, lying on her tummy with her chin propped in her hands. She hadn't even known he was sketching her, and now he didn't want it any more, she thought desolately.
She was standing staring at it, tears pricking at the backs of her eyes, when she heard a scraping noise from down below. Puzzled, she went to the edge and peeped down cautiously, only to see the ladder lying on the ground and someone walking away. A figure in a grey waterproof hooded coat as familiar to her as her own green anorak.
Bewildered, and frightened, she shouted to him.
'Chay— I can't get down. Come back—oh, please come back.'
But he didn't even look round. Just kept going until he was lost to view among the trees. And although she went on calling until her voice was hoarse, her only answer was silence.
When Piers found her at last, hours later, Chay was with him, still wearing that betraying grey jacket, and somehow that was the worst thing of all.
She screamed at him, 'You did this! I saw you! I hate you!' And she picked up the stone and threw it at him.
She saw the blood on his cheek, and the grey eyes turn to chips of ice. And realised she had lost her friend forever.
Adrien came back, shivering, to the present, to find that her arms were wrapped protectively round her body. Each memory, it seemed, still had claws to tear her apart.
How could he do that? She asked herself stormily. I was a thoughtless child. I didn't deserve that. He didn't care that I was frightened. Didn't think that I could have fallen and hurt myself badly—or even been killed.
She'd been taken home and fussed over, given a hot bath and warm milk, and been tucked into bed. But she hadn't been able to sleep, and she'd got up and gone to her parents' room. The door had been ajar, and she'd heard them talking in low voices.
"The boy's dangerous,' her father had been saying. 'Angus has always been afraid of something like this.'
She hadn't been able to hear her mother's response, only her father's incisive, 'Oh, he'll be sent away, of course. There's no alternative.'
And the next day Chay had been gone from the Grange. She'd told herself she was glad. That she never wanted to see him again.
But he'd come back, of course, bringing different trouble with him.
And now he was here to stay, and more dangerous than ever. Because she was in his power, trapped again, with no means of escape apart from the terms he himself had offered.
Terms she'd accepted, and now had to fulfill. Before it was too late, and his patience was exhausted. Or his transient desire for her passed...
She slid down from the seat, her face fixed and set. Nothing could change the past, but she needed to make sure her future was secure. Too much depended on the deal she'd made with Chay, and now she had to keep her side of it.
The peignoir she'd bought for her honeymoon was in the wardrobe, swathed in tissue. Without giving herself time to think again, Adrien pulled her cotton nightshirt over her head and dropped it on the floor. The gossamer ivory peignoir spilled into her hands for a long moment.
So fragile, she thought. So transparent. Wearing it, a woman would have no defenses. Seeing it, a man would have no doubts. Swallowing, she put it on, tying the ribbons that fastened it at throat and waist.
The silk whispered round her as she left her room and went silently down the corridor.
He would probably be asleep, she thought, with self-derision. And her grand gesture of capitulation would be totally wasted.
But he was awake, propped up on one elbow and reading. The dark green coverlet had been pushed back, and a sheet just covered the curve of his lean hip. Beneath it he was clearly naked, and it occurred to her that she'd never I seen a naked man before. Apart from pictures, she amended dizzily, and no amount of paint or film could ever have prepared her for the warm, living reality. She thought she hadn't made a sound, but his head lifted J instantly, sharply, and he stared at her, marking the place in his book with a finger. He said softly, 'Insomnia would seem to be catching.'
'Yes.' Her voice was husky. She felt heat rise in her face, flood through her body under the sensuous intensity of his gaze.
'The hot drinks are in the kitchen,' he said after a pause. 'I don't use sleeping pills. So, what can I do for you, Adrien?' It sounded like a civil question. The courteous host enquiring after the wellbeing of a guest Only she knew differently...
'Chay.' Her voice broke huskily. 'Don't make this more difficult than it has to be.'
He leaned back against the pillows, watching her from under lowered lids. 'The problem's all in your mind, Adrien. It always has been. Ever since you decided I was your enemy.'
'I was a child,' she said. 'A little girl.'
'Not you, my pet. You were a woman the moment you were born. I watched you grow up—remember?' He touched a hand mockingly to his cheek. 'It scarred me for life.'
'You're not the only one with scars,' she said.
'Those hours I spent in the treehouse still give me nightmares. I— I had one earlier tonight.'
'If you've come here to be comforted,' he said, with a touch of harshness, 'think again.'
She said steadily. 'You know why I'm here.'
His smile mocked faintly. 'You look like a bride on her wedding night. But appearances can be deceptive.'
Her throat tightened. 'That cuts both ways. I don't know who you are any more. Or what you are.'
He shrugged a tanned shoulder. 'I'm a man whose money you need. I thought we'd established that.'
He closed his book and put it on the night table with a certain finality, then took one of the pillows from behind him and tossed it on to the bed at his side. Turned back the edge of the sheet in invitation. He said softly, 'Well, make your move, darling. I'm all attention.'
She paused helplessly. 'Will you—turn off the lamp— please?'
'No,' he said. 'I want to look at you. You can't walk in here wearing something as revealing as that exquisite piece of nonsense then play the modesty card. So take it off, my lovely one, and walk towards me. Slowly.'
'You don't understand.' She hesitated, her hand on the ribbon at her throat. 'I've never—I mean, I'm not into casual sex.'
'Who said this was going to be casual?' The grey eyes seemed to burn into hers. 'Now come here, or do I have to fetch you?'
She'd never been naked in front of a man before either, she thought as she loosened the ribbons. And she'd been crazy to think she could stay detached—treat this as some routine task. She wanted it to be dark, so that she didn't have to see the stark hunger in his face. She wanted silence, so she couldn't hear the sudden harsh breath he drew as she let the peignoir fall from her shoulders. She wanted it finished, so mat she would never feel so helpless and so—stupid again.
She was aware of every hammering pulse beat in her body. Could feel the dark race of her own blood as she walked to the bed. There was an iron bar constricting her chest—or was that just because she was holding her breath?
When she reached the bed, she sank down on to it, her hands gripping the edge of the mattress. She bent her head, letting her hair fall forward and shield her flushed face. And waited.
She thought she heard him sigh, then sensed movement and realised that he was kneeling behind her. She tensed, but his fingers were gentle, brushing her hair from her neck, exposing the sensitive nape to the warmth of his lips. She moved restively, surprised—disturbed—at the shiver of reaction that feathered through her, and felt his hands close on her shoulders, stilling her.
His mouth moved slowly downward, covering the taut skin over her shoulder blades, then beginning to trace, softly and sensuously, the long, delicate line of her spine.
Adrien released her pent-up breath in a gasp that was only part shock, her back arching in response to his caress. He pulled her back towards him so that she was leaning against him, the heat of his body penetrating her frozen inner core of panic and shame, dissolving it slowly away.
His arms encircled her, his hands sliding down to enjoy the involuntary thrust of her breasts, the long fingers moulding their softness while the palms moved in aching provocation against her hardening nipples.